Leila

by Robin Jenkins

  The young men were similarly transfigured. They had shed their carefully fashioned masks that had portrayed politeness and submissiveness. Revealed was a pride in themselves. In their eyes, all brown like Leila’s, was a view of a nobler future than safe jobs and comfortable conformity.

  If the Sultan ever allowed free elections he might be in for a shock. His Party might not have the easy victory he expected. The British Resident seemed better informed. Had Sir Hugo not warned him to scotch the snake before it got too big? Democracy, for what it was worth, would come, but the Sultan, advised by the British, would make sure it had only the appearance of power and not the reality.

  They were waiting patiently for Sandilands to speak to them.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked, smiling. ‘What’s all this about?’

  They did not smile back at him. Several voices answered him.

  ‘We are going to stand outside Government House.’

  ‘We want Chia, Lo, and Salim to be released.’

  ‘We want them to return to the College.’

  ‘Chia, Lo, and Salim are not in jail,’ he said.

  ‘Where are they?’ someone shouted.

  ‘In a safe place, I assure you. Do you know Mrs Azaharri, the lawyer?’

  Yes, they knew her.

  ‘Well, she has asked me to go with her tomorrow to Government House to discuss the matter with His Highness’s private secretary.’

  They were silent, thinking about it. Then someone cried: ‘Do not discuss, Mr Sandilands. Demand.’

  Sandilands would have expected that from a Chinese, but no, Jerome Dusing was a Malay.

  They seized on the word. ‘Demand. Demand. Demand.’ Half of them, he was sure, hardly knew what it meant.

  All the same, he had certainly undervalued them. There must have been meetings and discussions he had known nothing about. They hadn’t trusted him. Though he felt hurt, he had to admit that they had been right not to trust him. He was a mercenary after all. He would take his pay and leave. They would be here all their lives.

  ‘Long live Mrs Azaharri,’ someone cried.

  Others took it up.

  Evidently Leila was a heroine to them.

  Sandilands was disconcerted. He had been thinking of her as a private person with whom he had fallen in love. But if she was ever his he would have to share her with many others. He remembered Mr Cheng’s saying that she would be Prime Minister one day. Would she give up her political ambitions for love? Perhaps, but the man who could inspire such love in her would have to be heroic himself. Sandilands hardly qualified.

  ‘In the meantime please go to your classes,’ he said.

  They conferred.

  At last Jerome Dusing said: ‘We shall go to our classes, Mr Sandilands, but tomorrow you will come and tell us what His Highness’s secretary has said.’

  ‘I promise,’ he said.

  Nine

  HE DROVE to the Principal’s office. There he found Miss Leithbridge, seething. She was a middle-aged grey-haired Englishwoman who taught primary-school methods. She was hostile to Sandilands. ‘Because,’ Jean had said, ‘she really fancies you and you hardly give her a kind look.’ He himself put it down to professional jealousy. She thought the Vice-Principal’s job should have gone to her.

  ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Mr Sandilands,’ she cried.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Weren’t you always complaining that our students were too docile? Haven’t you often wished that they would show more spirit?’

  He could not deny it.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied, now that you’ve got the College in danger of being closed. This used to be a very happy place. Look at it now. Demonstrating, with placards! Like students at home and we know what bolsheviks most of them are.’

  There were tears of anger and frustration in her eyes.

  ‘Margaret has just been to try and reason with them,’ said the Principal. ‘Not with much success, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I told them that if they carried on like that they weren’t fit to be teachers. They paid absolutely no heed. That politeness of theirs is nothing but a shield to hide their real feelings. They don’t really respect us. Not even you, Mr Sandilands, though you’ve done more than the rest of us to win their favour.’

  He refused to let himself be provoked.

  ‘Well, they’ve gone back to their classes now,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve given Mr Anderson a list of the ringleaders, those that were impertinent to me. I’m going to insist that they also be expelled. There’s an element that we should get rid of. This disturbance is a blessing in that it has shown us who the troublemakers are.’

  ‘Surely, Margaret, their aims are laudable,’ said the Principal.

  ‘What aims, for heaven’s sake?’

  Sandilands answered. ‘Justice, for one. They think their colleagues have been unjustly treated. I agree with them.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. You’re more easily taken in than you think. I think Chia and Lo got what they deserved. I was never taken in by those big smiles that flashed on and off. I wasn’t surprised to hear that they were plotters and Communists.’

  ‘Nobody’s accused them of being Communists,’ said Sandilands.

  ‘I’m accusing them. They want to get rid of the Sultan, don’t they? They want to run the country themselves, don’t they?’

  ‘It’s called democracy, Miss Leithbridge.’

  ‘Democracy! What’s that but a lot of squabbling, with everybody looking to their own advantage? This country should think itself fortunate. The Sultan rules for the benefit of everyone. Aren’t the hospitals free? Do our students pay fees?’

  It was annoying to Sandilands to hear sentiments he largely agreed with being uttered by someone stupid and prejudiced.

  ‘If the Sultan was a tyrant I could understand it,’ said Miss Leithbridge, getting to her feet, ‘but you, Mr Sandilands, better than most of us have reason to know that he is not.’

  Would a tyrant have played golf with a teacher and suffered defeat after defeat with a meek smile? Would he not have insisted on trying again after a missed putt? No. His Highness was hardly a tyrant. He did his best to be fair. It was true many peasants and fishermen still lived in flimsy shacks and his own palace had two thousand rooms, and the mosque had cost hundreds of millions, but education was free and there was a good health service. Was a benevolent dictator to be preferred to a squabbling Parliament?

  Miss Leithbridge then left, saying she hoped there was a class waiting for her. Didn’t Mr Sandilands have one waiting for him?

  He had, but first he had to tell the Principal about his visit to Government House tomorrow with Mrs Azaharri.

  ‘Will anything come of it, Andrew?’ asked the Principal.

  ‘Mrs Azaharri seems confident.’

  ‘What kind of woman is she? I often see her mentioned in the Savu Times.’

  Sandilands should have cried, with shining eyes, that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, the most courageous, the most sincere, and the most desirable. What he did mutter, with lowered eyes, was that she had struck him as quite competent.

  ‘She’s half-Scottish, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. Her mother came from Temple, a small village about a dozen miles from Edinburgh.’

  Would he one day take Leila to see where her mother had been born?

  ‘Well, if she is as handsome as they say she is she should have some influence on His Highness,’ said the Principal, with a chuckle.

  ‘She’s not like that. She’s got principles.’

  ‘So has His Highness.’ The Principal laughed.

  Sandilands was alarmed. Leila was a widow and therefore vulnerable. She would not succumb to the lure of riches, he was sure of that, but what if she thought she could use her influence to persuade the Sultan to introduce reforms? She could have as much power as if she really was Prime Minister.

  His disquiet lasted only a f
ew moments. As he made for his classroom he felt joyful. The reason was his secret: he was in love with Leila. He told it to a red-headed bird taking a dip in a fountain, but he would tell it to no human being, in the meantime at any rate, and especially not – here his joy receded with a rush – to Jean.

  He had given her no promises. She would have to admit that, but she would claim that his sleeping with her, though it was really her sleeping with him, amounted to more than casual friendship.

  His joy soon surged back. In a few hours he would see Leila again. He would meet her daughter and perhaps her father. He would find out if he was right in thinking that she was as attracted to him as he was to her.

  If their love for each other was ever openly declared he would be faced with two choices: either to marry her (defying all the consequent difficulties) or – his heart sank – to sever from her as the song put it and be for a long time broken-hearted, but safe.

  It was his mother’s fault. As a boy and a young man he had had to listen to her warnings against the cunning and wickedness of women: they were all Jezebels. He had come to realise that she was crazy with religion, but it had made his relationships with women cautious and furtive.

  Ten

  THE CUSTOM was to wear trousers, of tropical weight, in the evenings, with a long-sleeved shirt, and a tie. If it was a formal occasion, such as a party at the British Residency, then a jacket too was necessary, even if, in spite of a dozen fans whirling overhead, the heat was such that even on the ladies’ flimsy dresses sweat marks soon appeared under the oxters. Dressing for his visit to Leila’s, Sandilands swithered whether or not to wear a jacket. When he visited Jean he did not wear one, but this visit to Leila was very different. She would not, like Jean, receive him wearing nothing but a transparent négligé. Her bosom, as splendid as Jean’s he had no doubt, would not be on display, and she would not perch herself on his lap. Jean had habits like a Shamrock whore’s.

  He put on his best jacket. His tie was the Yacht Club’s, dark blue with a little gold yacht and the letters, S.Y.C., also in gold. He took with him, in its pot, his most prized and most valuable orchid, carefully wrapped in some left-over Christmas paper. It was Saidee’s favourite too.

  She asked anxiously if he was intending to bring it back. He shook his head and said he was going to give it to the woman he loved. He said it in English so that Saidee only half understood. She spoke in Malay. Was he taking it to the lady with the loud voice and big feet? No, he replied, he was taking it to the lady with the quiet voice.

  As for Leila’s feet he couldn’t honestly say he had noticed what size they were, but he was sure that, like the rest of her, the parts seen and the parts hidden, they would be the most delicate shade of brown. His heart missed a beat or two as he thought that, for though the delicate shade of brown was assuredly more lovely than any pinky-white, deep within him aversion lurked.

  Leila’s house was on the hill opposite the harbour. He had been surprised to learn that she lived there, for it was where the rich, most of them relatives of the Sultan, had their large architect-designed houses. Even if Leila’s was one of the smallest it would still be worth a lot of money. He was pleased for her sake. After all, if she had lived in a one-roomed shack who would have heeded her? Not even the poor themselves.

  These were his thoughts as he drove up the spiralling road. The whole hillside was a blaze of bougainvillea. Even the tallest houses could be seen only in glimpses. Below was the lighted town, beyond the sea with its many small islands. He had often sailed out to them, picnicking on the elysian beaches. Jean had sometimes accompanied him. She had swum naked in the lukewarm water. He had worn trunks.

  He had been told the number of the house was 18, but the Chinese clerkess had added, with a giggle, that he would recognise it by the stone monkeys on the gateposts. They were orang-utans.

  Orang-utans were native to Savu. They had been in danger of extinction for many had been kidnapped for zoos throughout the world. The Sultan had saved them by making their export illegal. A Parliament would have squabbled over it for months and perhaps never have come to a decision.

  As he drove through the gate up the steep drive to the house he noticed that the garden had become overgrown, which happened quickly in the tropics if there was any neglect. The original owner must have employed a small army of gardeners. Leila, it seemed, had very few, if any. Perhaps she wasn’t so rich after all. Perhaps the house had been bequeathed to her by some relative. He had heard that her father’s family was distantly related to the Sultan.

  The house was magnificent, with a great curved terrace and marble steps. What dilapidation there was was hardly noticeable in the lamplight.

  He was glad he was going to see her in this splendid setting. She would have been out of place in a standard PWD house, such as his and Jean’s, made of wood, with four small rooms and built on stilts.

  She must have been waiting for she appeared at once on the terrace and came down the steps to greet him. She was dressed in a red-and-white sarong-kebaya, with a red flower in her hair and red shoes on her feet; these, he saw with absurd satisfaction, were smaller than Jean’s. She had her little daughter by the hand.

  The child seemed a good deal swarthier than her mother, but perhaps her white dress and the white ribbon in her hair accentuated her darkness. He knew, of course, that in a marriage of white or nearly white and black or nearly black the offspring usually took after the latter, often, if they were females, to their lifelong regret. In Savu, as in many other places in Asia, women prized paleness of skin. They used lotions to try and achieve it and kept out of the sun.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Sandilands,’ said Leila, holding out her hand.

  He took it and held on to it. ‘Good evening,’ he said. He did not want to call her Mrs Azaharri.

  ‘This is my daughter Christina.’

  The little girl must have been called after her Scottish grandmother. She was shy and pressed close to her mother.

  Reluctantly letting go Leila’s hand he bent down to speak to the child. Her eyes were brown. Jean was always talking about the blue-eyed children they would have.

  ‘Hello, Christina,’ he said.

  She hid her face against her mother. She had not instantly taken to him. He did not have the knack of talking reasonably with small children. He would have to acquire it.

  He looked about him. ‘I didn’t know you lived in such a grand place. Is it yours?’

  ‘Yes, but not for long. It’s up for sale. It was left to me by an uncle. I couldn’t possibly afford to live here. In any case it’s not suitable for Christina. She loves playing with her bicycle and that needs flat safe roads. So I’ve bought a house near the beach at Tanjong Aru. I believe you live in that area.’

  ‘At the far end, yes. Plenty of flat safe roads there, and of course there’s the beach.’

  Ten miles of it, with only a few dead jelly-fish as obstacles.

  ‘Where are the students?’ he asked.

  ‘Playing table-tennis.’

  ‘The other students came out on strike today.’

  ‘In sympathy?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good for them.’

  ‘Does your father live with you?’ he asked.

  ‘No. He has a house of his own, in the town. Tell me about the strike.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. They just refused to go to their classes. They went back when I told them about our meeting tomorrow at Government House.’

  ‘If nothing comes of it will they go on strike again?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘You wouldn’t approve?’

  ‘I don’t think it would do any good and might get the College closed down.’

  Then he remembered the orchid and went to his car for it.

  The flowers were red streaked with white.

  She put her hand on his arm as she admired the plant.

  ‘Is it for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank
you very much, Andrew. Isn’t it beautiful, Christina?’

  She had called him Andrew, so he could call her Leila.

  The little girl was still trying to make up her mind about him. She kept giving him quick glances.

  They went up the steps. Sandilands carried the plant.

  They were met on the terrace by the three students. Chia and Lo held table-tennis bats.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Sandilands,’ they said.

  They were cheerful, and why not? They were young men and their benefactress was a lovely woman. Indeed, they looked at her adoringly, so much so that Sandilands felt vaguely jealous. It wasn’t only the beauty of her face and body that enchanted them, it was also her courage and passion for justice. Seeing her through their eyes Sandilands was ashamed of his own doubts as to her motives.

  ‘Mr Sandilands was telling me the students went on strike today,’ she said.

  To Sandilands’ surprise Lo was not pleased. ‘They should not,’ he said, frowning. ‘It is too early.’

  What the hell did that mean, Sandilands wondered. That there would be a time for strikes and demonstrations, but it had not come yet? That they ought not to be spontaneous and sporadic and so ineffectual, but carefully planned and concerted?

  There was something going on, he thought. Perhaps Alec Maitland wasn’t far wrong.

  He soon had something much more personal to worry about. Salim, simple soul, asked him about Jean Hislop. It wasn’t done maliciously. He had no intention of embarrassing his English teacher. At the students’ dance he had danced with Jean and had never forgotten her yellow hair, blue eyes, and Western exuberance.

  They were seated at table, enjoying a Malayan curry, ‘not as hot as Indian’, which the students had helped to prepare when Salim, in Malay, asked, most unexpectedly, when Mr Sandilands was going to marry Miss Hislop.

  Chia and Lo, more sophisticated, and aware that there might be some degree of intimacy between their hostess and her Scottish guest, were amused; especially when they saw how put out that guest was by the ingenuous question.